If There's a Gun on the Wall
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: [Firewall] I'm not sure where I got the name Bill Cox, but it has served me well. For a while... [Chap. 2] Impliednonexplicit slash, partial suicide, switching of tense, language.
1. Chapter 1

I was probably thirteen or fourteen when I first held a gun. It's an interesting story, want to hear it? No, I guessed you wouldn't. I don't see any other storytellers holding you at gunpoint, so sit tight and listen. Now, now, I'm not completely cruel. I just can't stand not being heard, especially when I need to say something. I haven't thought of this for such a long time, so I'm going to have to force you to listen…Don't talk, I have a good sized roll of duct tape here.

You can probably guess that my family wasn't the best, and I don't tell you that for pity. I tell you that so you can understand something. I was a smart child, but neither my mother nor my father could see it for they both were astoundingly ignorant. They never noticed as I grew. I told them that I read every book in the house and their only reply was "Where'd you learn to read?" I guess it must have slipped their mind that they had sent me to school, and a year late at that. I caught up quickly, though, and skipped third and fourth grade. My teachers saw my advancement as something rather amazing, but when they tried to tell my father he just laughed in their faces and slammed the door.

In my second year of high school, I was taking chemistry and we did a study on gunpowder. I asked my father if I could see one of his guns, for he had many for hunting and a few just for the hell of it. He didn't answer, so I took it as a yes. I went to his ammunition closet—which was more a room, I guess that's why I slept in the garage—and retrieved a good-sized handgun. It wasn't loaded, so I tried to figure out what I was doing. I soon had it loaded with a single shot. It was then that I heard my father coming down the hall.

"That bastard," I heard him say, "I'll kill him." It didn't take more than a moment for me to realize whom he was talking about. I replaced the handgun and stood back from the cabinet that held his guns. The door swung open. "What the hell do you think you're doing in here?"

Now, listen, I was not the strongest guy, and my father toward over me maybe by two or three feet. So you see why I had trouble keeping my voice steady. "I just wanted to see your guns," I said, "I asked." It was a weak attempt at saving myself and I knew it.

"You idiot!" he hissed grabbing my arm roughly, "You could kill yourself." I doubt that that's what he really cared about. He was probably more worried I'd end up taking one apart and not putting it back together—I did that with the clock in the hall when I was eight.

I tried to get out of his grasp, but to no avail. "Let me go!" I shouted at him, "That hurts." I thought that he would break my arm if he didn't let go.

"You think this hurts?" he asked. He twisted my arm until I heard my shoulder pop out of the socket. "_That_ hurts."

It really did. You know how sometimes people can easily pull their arm out and pop it back in? Well, that's because they had done it before in their childhood. I can do it now without pain, see? It's not _that_ gross. Well the first time it hurts like hell. He let me go and I fell to the floor.

"Get your ass out of this room," my father said and he turned his back to me and began to walk towards the door.

Now, I'd had just about enough of his disregard for my well being. "Son of a bitch," I muttered, using profanity for the first time verbally. I went to the cabinet again and took out the handgun. I've been called crazy before. Well of course you know you just did in the parking lot, didn't you? Well, I think I really was slightly insane when I held that gun, aimed and fire into the back of my father's head.

I told you it was an interesting story. Oh, but what I did next is outrageous! I took that gun and loaded with another single shot. This was kind of strange, because I didn't want to even move my left arm so I was doing it one handed. I went to the kitchen to find my mother with the gun held behind my back. She was really shocked, I think because of the gunshot.

She looked at me once and she got suspicious. "You little monster," she said, "did you just waste your father's ammunition? And what the hell's wrong with your arm?"

I was strangely calm, whereas most people are shaky the first time the kill some one with a gun. I shrugged. "I didn't waste it," I told her, "I won't waste this shot either." I aimed the gun at her and the look on her face was truly priceless. I shot her in the stomach. When she fell I walked up to her and looked down on her. "I read that anatomy book on that bookshelf by your bed," I hissed, "It'll take you at least twenty minutes to die. I wish you could watch as your stomach acids spill out into your blood."

That was the day I ran away from home. I'm not sure how I got to doing things like this. I guess boredom. What do you think? You already said that, friend, let's not get redundant.

Well, maybe I am a nutcase, but at least I put it to good use. Have you found that file yet? As much as I love nostalgia, I'm getting a little impatient here. Hurry up or I'll find it myself. You have ten seconds. Nine. Try looking there. Eight…Seven…Six. Your hands are shaking. Five…Four. You should really consider making a search engine for your entire hard drive. Three…Two…One. Sorry, but you still haven't found it and I haven't got all night.

Shit! I can't see anything, there's too much blood on the screen. And there's a tooth in the keys. Well, that's that, I guess I'll have to find it some other way. Sorry you had to die for no reason. Have a nice night!

Disclaimer: I don't own Bill Cox or the entire concept of Firewall. I do, however, own the little story about his past.

Rating: PG-13 (Violence and language)

Author's Note: I did write this on a different account, but said account kind of died. So I decided to post it here. I wrote another version, which I might put in a different chapter. It's not a version as in slightly altered, it's simply another story that could use the same title.


	2. Chapter 2

Look at it. Just sitting there on the wall, mocking my very existence. I'm not quite sure how, exactly, a gun could mock me in such a way, but, then again, I'm not sure how I came to be in and empty, gray room at all. The last thing I remember was…Oh yes, Jack Stanfield. There was a pickax to the back…Oh, so I'm dead, then (who would guess I 'd die by pickax?)? Funny, my vision of Hell was more infernal and torturous. Unless this is Heaven…If this is what Heaven is, I'd much rather be in Hell.

Blank walls span the room maybe 12' x 12' with no doors and no windows. There are only two things in this entire room. The chair that I'm sitting in and the gun that is hung on two nails to the wall. It's a six-shooter top-break that looks like it's never been used before. I'm in a box. No way out…Is that why there's a gun on the wall?

I've never liked enclosed spaces. My parents used to lock me in closets (and sometimes in the trunk of the car) when they deemed I was in the way. I remember a full three days of being left in the closet. That's a memory I'd rather not remember. When I had run away from home to pursue a life of crime at the age of sixteen, there wasn't really anyone I could turn to. At least there was no one to lock me in closets either.

I had been part of a gang for a while, just there for money, but I did end up killing a few people. I think that's where it started. I'd had an obsession with guns and knives and any such objects that could easily break the fragile casing that holds a human life. That was quite poetic, wasn't it? Anyway, I faked my death and left the gang to return home. There, I killed both my parents, and even my baby brother that I hadn't know about. I was about twenty-two then.

I never really had more remorse for my parents' deaths, but the baby…He'd never done anything to me. You know, if I hadn't lost it and just killed everything that moved in my parent's house, I might have a little brother right now. I often used to find myself fantasizing over what it would be like to have a brother. My mind was never really at rest after that.

And now I think I know. This is purgatory then. The walls…I swear they are getting smaller. That gun is getting closer. I felt myself rock in the chair beneath me and my mind tried to distract me from this shrinking box. Liam…Oh, if I believed in God now I'd have prayers. Am I going to die here? The box is getting smaller. Liam…He was my true partner. I never knew his real name, nor did he know mine. I look at the gun in question. I wonder if it would take me back. Now I stand and the chair disappears. It is only two feet to the gun now. I take it off the wall. Never have I had fear of a firearm. Liam…

This is ridiculous! I wouldn't be here if it weren't for that damn Jack Stanfield. Where the hell is here? I check the gun to find one shot. Figures… The walls are closer now. How I miss those days when I first met him. Liam had been a bartender for most of his life. He kept his bar safe by having a gun in plain sight on top of his icebox. I was there for the only reason of robbing him. It didn't work out the way I planned.

Maybe I could just shoot through the wall. Then again, there's only one shot, and what if it didn't work? Sure, I had cleaned out all the money he kept in the bar and his gun while he was knocked unconscious and his few customers ran for their own safety. The thing was, I saw him about a week after that. I passed him by chance in an alley on my way home. He really kicked my ass. I'm not quite sure how we came to the agreement of working together, but I remember it had to do with beer at my place.

I felt my mind go blank. There was definitely more I could think about concerning Liam: the taste of cigarette smoke in his mouth, his burning touch, etc. I can't bring it to my mind's eye at the moment. Why not? Why is there this sudden silence? All I hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears. Suddenly this gun doesn't look quite so fearsome. That loathing deep in my heart for this place dulls any other feeling I could possibly have. The metal casing of the gun clicks against my teeth, the first sound that pierced the silence in the room. The next was a shot as my finger squeezes the trigger.

I tried to sit up, as was the first instinct when one has a nightmare. There was something heavy on top of me holding me down to the couch. I opened my eyes slowly and looked around. Liam…His head rested just below my collarbone. I couldn't see his face, but his mess of dirty blond hair was unmistakable. I closed my eyes again and listened to his breathing and felt his chest press again my stomach.

I was grateful for the fact that everyone that worked with me in this particular project found it in their hearts to accept, or ignore, the relationship I shared with Liam. All except Willy, of course, but I feel I'll end up killing him anyway. I put a hand on Liam's shoulder and moved him gently.

"They're asleep," I heard Vel say as he sat at the bar behind the couch, watching the images from the security cameras.

"Liam," I muttered, "Wake up, it's your watch."

As he stirred I noticed Jack in the corner of my eye. Jack had a strange look on his face. Liam looked up at me for a moment before silently getting up. When he had both feet on the ground, I sat up and kissed him, tongue action and everything, just to put any doubt from Jack's mind. The last thing I wanted was questions. "One thing," I muttered to Liam, breaking the kiss, "We keep pickaxes from Jack, right?"

Liam raised an eyebrow, completely oblivious of my dream, but nodded and went to relieve Vel of the Watch.

* * *

Nicholas de Vilance: Part two of my...thing. Anyway...this is what the first inspiration of "If There's a Gun on the Wall" is. Warning: There is Slash...Maybe I should've put this in the beginning.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own nothing...except the stories about the past, Bill's brother.


End file.
